Say It If You Feel It
by PhoebeSnow
Summary: Molly has a cold, and to her surprise, Sherlock comes to her aid.
1. Taking Care

"Molly! Are you home?"

The brunette's ears perked up and she frowned. That sounded like Sherlock, but what was he doing at her apartment? Her voice was a bit croaky, but she called out, "Yes, I'm here!" Molly sighed and stared at the ceiling, hating that she would have to get out of bed to greet her friend.

It's not that she wasn't willing to invite him in, but she was so bloody tired and achy that walking to the door would be a chore. As she pushed her comforter back and began scooting her body across the bed to its edge, she heard the front door open and close. Molly furrowed her brow. How had he gotten in?

Oh, that's right. He still had a key to her flat. Any sensible person would have retrieved their key from Sherlock as quickly as possible, but Molly opted to let him keep it. It was likely that he may need to use her flat as a bolt hole again someday.

Not that she was _hoping_ for such an outcome, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Footsteps came towards her bedroom door and Molly opened her mouth to say something, but Sherlock swept through the room before she could get the words out. She scowled at him. "Sherlock, how many times have I told you to knock before coming in my bedroom?"

He paused and cocked his head to the side. "I don't remember."

"That's because you don't lis-achoo!" Molly sneezed, but managed to cover her mouth with her sweater sleeve.

Sherlock handed her the box of tissues she'd left in the living room and she took it from him, grabbing a couple of the white sheets and blowing her nose on the soft fabric. He observed her for a few moments, then said, "I was right. You're sick."

Oh, lovely. Molly usually was in great admiration of Sherlock's deducing skills, but today, she honestly couldn't have cared less. "Please, tell me how you figured that out." Sarcasm dripped from her voice, but he paid no attention and preceded to sit on her bed.

"I went by St. Bart's, only to find out that you had taken a few days of paid leave. You love your job, but it was possible that you had been overworked recently and felt that you needed a break or you really were sick. However, after I entered your flat, it was quite obvious you were sick. There is a slight scent of disinfectant in the living room, which originated on the coffee table. You're always methodical when it comes to cleanliness, so it was clear to me that you had scrubbed it down. The lemon rind by your cup and saucer on the kitchen counter was evidence that you made yourself a cup of tea earlier to soothe your sore throat. There are also crumpled tissues in your trash can and your bed because your nose has been runny for well over an hour." There was a smug look of satisfaction on Sherlock's face as he looked down at her, smirking.

Molly scowled, as she was very much not in the mood for his arrogance right now. If he was going to be annoying, he could leave. Grabbing her pillow, she smacked him on the head good and hard - much to his detriment as he made a sound of protest. "Right on all counts, as usual, but I won't be able to help you with whatever case you're working on today."

He ran a hand through those beautiful ebony curls and shook his head. "As a matter of fact, I'm not working on a case."

"Oh...well, what are you doing here, then?"

"I came by to take you to lunch, actually."

Molly's eyes grew as wide as two saucers. Sherlock Holmes came to her flat with the intention of taking her to lunch? As in, a _date_? For a moment, all Molly could do was stare up at the detective in shock. Her palms grew sweaty and she felt her cheeks warm.

To distract herself from the butterflies that had begun flitting around her insides, she forced herself to speak. "Well, that's kind of you, but obviously, I'm not fit to go anywhere in my current condition."

"Have you had anything besides that cup of tea from earlier?"

"No. I don't have much of an appetite when I'm sick, Sherlock."

"Whether you feel like it or not, you still need something in your stomach."

"Well, unless I grow wings, there's no way I'm going to hobble around my kitchen to heat up soup in this state. My limbs are tired and achy and-"

Right there, her stomach finished her sentence by growling. Molly's cheeks were definitely red by now and she self consciously covered her belly.

"As I said before, you need food." Sherlock was about to say something else, but something caught his attention and sat on the edge of the bed, taking Molly's hands in his own. The brunette squeaked in surprise from his quick movements and stared into his beautiful eyes as he searched her face carefully. His thumbs grazed the skin of her palms and she fought the urge to lick her lips. If only she weren't sick, she'd be tempted to lean over and kiss him.

Oh, for goodness' sake. She was _still_ tempted even though she was sick! Why did he have to be so irresistible?

That was when he spoke, interrupting her thoughts. "Your palms are sweating, your pupils are dilated and there is a pinkish tint on your cheeks. All indications that you're aroused by my presence and embarrassed by it."

"Sherlock!" Molly tried to sound indignant, but her tone was hardly that.

The detective grinned again and placed a hand on her shoulder. "There's no reason to feel shame about your feelings, Molly. I'm quite fond of you, too."

Her eyes grew wide again. "What?"

Sherlock kept grinning and he leaned forward, kissing her forehead softly, as if she were a priceless treasure. "I'll go heat up some soup." He stood and after a wink in her direction, he turned and walked out of her bedroom to the kitchen.

Molly stared at his retreating back and after a few moments, she tugged the comforter around her body tighter as a small smile grew on her face. Sherlock Holmes just admitted to liking her and he was going to stick around even though she was sick?

 _If this is a dream, don't wake me up._


	2. Closer

_Molly and Sherlock express their true feelings for each other._

* * *

Molly stirred in bed and slowly, but surely, her eyes fluttered open. She'd been sleeping on the right side of her bed, cheek resting against her palm. A yawn left her mouth and she stretched, effectively smacking the person who lie next to her in the face.

"Ow," said a familiar baritone voice.

The pounding of Molly's heart slowed and she reached out to touch the cheek she'd accidentally struck. "Oh! Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I didn't notice you there."

Those familiar blue-green eyes opened to look at her in mild exasperation. "I told you I'd be keeping you company for the remainder of the night." And he'd also been awake for the past half hour, just watching the rise and fall of her chest as she slept. Sherlock decided that he liked watching Molly sleep.

She rolled her eyes. "Well, when you told me that, I had just finished eating and was already sleepy. You could have said that you were running away to join the circus and I still wouldn't have remembered."

Sherlock snorted derisively, but smiled as well. "I'd have to be mad to join the circus, but you have a point. I can concede to that."

"How kind," the pathologist said cheerfully. Her eyes locked onto the planes of his cheeks.

 _Mm, your cheekbones looked like they were chiselled from marble._

"Now that's a unique way to flirt," Sherlock said with a chuckle.

Molly's hand stilled. Damn. Had she actually said that out loud? She cleared her throat and tried not to look into Sherlock's piercing and deliciously intimate gaze. How was it that she felt like he was staring right into her soul, like she were as transparent as glass?

Awkwardly, she jerked her hand away from him and sat up. "I-I have to brush." Then she scrambled out of bed - nearly falling on her arse because her ankle was tangled in the sheet - and hurried to the safety of her bathroom.

Of course, she hadn't intended to brush her teeth; she just needed to get away from the intensity of Sherlock's stare. The brunette picked up her toothbrush, squirted a tiny bead of paste on the bristles and began to clean her teeth.

As Molly brushed, she noticed that the weariness in her limbs was gone and her body felt lighter. The tea and soup she had yesterday helped get rid of her cold, which was good, but that wasn't at the forefront of her mind. As she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, memories of yesterday came back to her and she could almost feel the gentle pressure of Sherlock's lips on her forehead.

He said that he was fond of her, _too_. Sherlock knew of her feelings for him and reciprocated them, but in what way? _Fond_ wasn't a substitute for madly in love. For Molly, her feelings about Sherlock were far from a simple crush. The affection she had for him ran deep.

Today was different than yesterday. Molly could tell that she was feeling much better and more clear headed. How would their relationship change due to the events of last night? They had slept next to each other, but what did that mean to Sherlock? Would he take back what he said last night or avoid it as if it never happened?

A knock on the bathroom door shook Molly out of her reverie. "Molly? Are you alright? You've been in there for a bit."

She spat the white foam in the sink, rinsed her mouth and her toothbrush quickly. "Uh, yeah. I just...needed to think."

"About?"

"Don't play coy, Sherlock. You already know."

There was a beat of silence on the other side of the door. Molly's breathing was heavy and she closed her eyes for a few seconds. She opened the door, walked to the bed and sat down on it, gesturing for him to do the same.

It was difficult to get the words out, given that she was so nervous, but Molly was determined to clear the air between them. Although, before she could even say one word, Sherlock beat her to the punch.

He looked so unsure of himself and just as nervous as she did. "Molly, you, of all people, know that I'm not...adept in matters of the heart. But lately, I've just been thinking about the people whose presence has significant importance in my life. I have John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft, but you are the one who matters the most."

Molly felt butterflies in her stomach. "I am?"

"Yes. You are worth far more to me than just as an aid for my detective work or my contact of access the pathology lab at St. Bart's." He furrowed his brow and took her hand in his, feeling how soft and tiny it was against his own, larger one.

Molly wanted so badly to speak, but she had a feeling that whatever Sherlock was telling her now was very important. So, she kept her lips pressed together and waited for him to continue.

"I know that I have taken advantage of our relationship, belittled you, embarrassed you and treated you as if you weren't an equal. I am sorry for that. You deserve much better than me." Sherlock's head was drooped and he didn't meet her eyes, so she held his chin up, forcing him to look at her.

"Sherlock...are you saying that you care about me as _more_ than a friend?"

"Yes. Ever since that Christmas party, there has been a change in the air between us. After I deduced you" - he cringed here - "I realised that you had feelings for me and that I'd truly hurt you. I felt terrible about it and that rarely happens. Guilt is not something I experience in regards to my treatment of other people, but I felt it that night."

"When you let me stay here after you helped me fake my death, I began to feel...comfortable being around you. Your quirks, your smiles, your idiosyncrasies, watching you in the privacy of your own home gave me insight into who you are as a person and I liked what I saw. I still do."

Tears filled Molly's eyes and a few slid down her cheeks.

"Anyone would say that you can do better and it's true. I **don't** deserve you...but I _need_ you, and I don't need anyone."

The gravity of what he'd said had not been lost on Molly. Sherlock Holmes, the man who prided himself on staying free of emotional attachments and preferred the coldness of logic over affection needed her? Hearing him say the words hit Molly so hard that she started sobbing.

"Y-you mean..."

A gentle smile spread on Sherlock's face and took her face in his slender hands, drawing them so close that their noses nearly touched. "I'm saying that I love you, Molly Hooper."

The pathologist gasped and threw her arms around the man in front of her, clutching his shoulders tightly. "Oh, Sherlock!" Molly laughed as tears ran down her face and she tugged him down to the comforter, kissing him passionately.

Instinctively, Sherlock cradled her in his embrace and responded enthusiastically to her kisses. Eventually, they had to pull back to breathe, but neither moved completely out of the other's reach. Molly stayed in Sherlock's arms, her back against his warm chest, their fingers entwined. Quietly, but audibly, she said, "I love you," back and he tenderly kissed her neck in response.

It had taken Molly and Sherlock a long time to get here, so they were going to enjoy every minute they could have together. After all, they were due.


	3. Tender

_Molly learns something new about Sherlock._

* * *

Molly moaned and buried her head on Sherlock's chest, trying to make herself comfortable.

Her boyfriend couldn't help smiling at her. "Molly, why don't you go to bed. You've already missed half of the movie."

"No, I haven't. I'm watching it," came her quick reply even though her eyes were still tiny slits. Molly had a hard day at St. Bart's today and had came home intending to sleep as soon as possible. However, she was pleasantly surprised to find Sherlock in her apartment with dinner and dessert waiting.

He was truly becoming a romantic and after she finished gaping at everything, she happily told him so. Of course, he waved it off and mumbled something about being more thoughtful in their relationship.

"Come on, Molly. You're sleepy. Go on. We can always watch the movie tomorrow."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Well, I have to braid my hair. I want it to be wavy tomorrow, but my hands are too tired to do it now."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He could tell from the way she spoke that she wouldn't be able to do much for her hair. Luckily, she managed to stay awake for dinner and desert, but right now, she was pretty sleepy. "I could braid it for you, then."

Molly's eyes widened in surprise. "You want to braid my hair? Are you teasing me, Sherlock Holmes?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock crossed his arms. "Yes, I can braid."

"But how? And why?"

"I have several talents, as you well know, Molly. Call it what you like, but I actually find braiding quite intriguing."

"Intriguing? To you? Oh, my God! I can't believe what I'm hearing. Sherlock Holmes likes to braid hair! I could go for days on this!" Molly burst into a fit of giggles and Sherlock sent her an annoyed glare, but she continued to laugh, even falling onto the floor.

"It's not that funny," he said in a moody voice, but she just kept laughing, so he stood up, turned off the film and went straight to her bedroom.

A few minutes later, Molly finally stopped giggling and she went into her bedroom quietly. Sherlock had already changed for bed and was lying on his side with his back facing the door.

Molly shook her head and went to her wardrobe, pulled out her pyjamas and changed silently. "I suppose I'll just sleep with my hair free tonight." She climbed into bed and Sherlock's eyes opened when the mattress dipped.

After a short period of silence, he sighed and said, "You shouldn't sleep with your hair free or it'll be tangled and messy in the morning. I'm willing to overlook your previous transgression towards my person" - she rolled her eyes at that - "and braid your hair if you wish."

"Alright. You do have a point. I hate having tangles in my hair." Molly took her brush off to her nightstand and handed it to Sherlock. He sat up and scooted against the headboard, motioning for her to do the same and come between his legs.

She blushed a bit at the thought of being that close to him, but she did it anyway.

"I'm going to give you a massage for a few minutes first to relax your scalp. Then, I will brush your hair and braid it."

"Sounds good."

And _oh_ , that word was an understatement once he put his fingers in her hair. Sherlock started at the back of her hair, working his way up and around the scalp. His long, elegant fingers rubbed gentle, yet firm circles on her head.

It felt amazing. Molly had many fantasies about Sherlock's fingers and what they could do to her, but _this_ was something she hadn't expected. Not that she would complain by any means. It was a pretty nice start dor their relationship.

This particular massage was quite relaxing, alright. Molly fought to keep her eyes open the more he rubbed her hair. The way Sherlock moved his fingers - almost expertly, she'd say - Molly wondered if maybe he had some experience in this area because someone taught him or if he learned to do it himself.

Eventually, Sherlock's fingers began to slow and he stopped massaging her hair. It was good timing because Molly had actually gotten a bit aroused by her boyfriend's ministrations. After the massage, he brushed her hair with slow, even strokes.

When he was done with that, he asked, "What kind of braid do you want? Fishtail, French, Dutch, plait, four strand?"

Once again, Molly's eyes widened in shock. He knew how to braid **more** than one style? Was she in another universe? "Uh, just a regular plait will be fine. Thank you."

"A regular plait it is, then." Sherlock went to work with her hair while Molly just sat there with her hand pressed against her mouth, smiling like a fool. Her boyfriend could braid hair and if he knew how to do other styles, then he's very good, too.

So once he drew back, patted her shoulders and said, "All done," Molly got up, turned on the lights and went to the full length mirror that stood next to her wardrobe. Her jaw dropped and she touched the long braid, holding it up for inspection.

"Wow. This is a better braid than I usually do."

"Well, I _am_ proficient in many things, as you know. Braiding is merely one of them." Sherlock lie back on the bed and put his arms behind his head, looking triumphant, like the cat who got the cream.

Molly rolled her eyes. And there he was, preening as usual. She turned the lights out and climbed back into bed. "You are an arrogant cock at times, Sherlock Holmes, but you're very sweet, too."

"Just do me a favor and don't tell anyone."

She laughed and turned around, resting in his embrace. "Your secret is safe with me." Molly's eyes drooped and she felt sleep begin to claim her, but before she succumbed to it, she took his hand in hers. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly?"

"Thank you for tonight, for dinner, desert and my hair. This has been the most wonderful evening I've had in a while and you made me feel very special."

Sherlock smiled, squeezing her hand gently and when he replied, there was a softness in his voice that he only reserved for her. "It was my pleasure. I know today was pretty rough for you, so I wanted to do something nice to offset it. And you _are_ special, Molly...to me." With that, he kissed her on the neck and she sighed softly, taking his hand and placing it on her waist.

That night, they had the best sleep of their lives because they were with each other.


	4. Comfort

_When Molly's ankle is sprained at work, Sherlock shows up just in time._

* * *

A small grunt came from Molly's lips as she hobbled down the hall to the women's locker room. The pain on her ankle wasn't very bad, but it still stung whenever she walked on it. Thank goodness Mike had given her the rest of the day off.

"I wonder who could have left that puddle of water in the floor in the pathology lab. I wish they had been more careful." Molly sighed and when she reached her personal locker, she opened it and deposited her white coat inside. Her favorite green and purple jumper was there, but she struggled to get it on.

At first, Molly leaned on her left ankle - the uninjured one - and hopped on her foot in an attempt to maintain balance while she tugged the top on her upper torso. Unfortunately, her hair got a little tangled with her hair tie and the jumper wouldn't go over her head.

Molly accidentally put her right ankle down on the ground and she cried out from the jolt of pain that ran through her leg. Precariously, she felt herself tilt forward and flailed, but a pair of strong arms caught her before she fell, holding her close to a familiar masculine chest.

"Good thing I came down here. That would have been a bad slip," said a baritone voice that Molly knew all too well. The man's hands disentangled her hair from her jumper and pulled the fabric in place. When she opened her eyes, it was Sherlock who stood in front of her.

"Oh, thank you, Sherlock." Molly gave him a grateful smile and leaned against her locker as she took out her purse and coat.

The detective frowned when he saw how she was standing and he glanced at her wrapped ankle. "Molly, what happened to your ankle?"

"I, uh, I twisted it...in the lab."

"In the lab?" Sherlock's frown deepened. "Since when do you have accidents? You're always careful and you never wear heels to work."

"I know, but someone left a puddle of water on the floor and I hadn't been paying attention because I was busy with my post mortem. It's not too bad, but Mike gave me the rest of the day off and I won't be coming in tomorrow either so I have time to recoup a bit."

Sherlock snorted. "What kind of idiot would just leave a spill on the floor like that? It's dangerous, discourteous and completely unprofessional."

It was refreshing to see him be so protective of her. Molly honestly thought it was rather cute - not that she'd admit this out loud and if Sherlock managed to deduce it from her, she'd just threaten to tell John and Mary the pet name he calls her whenever they're alone. She smiled as she closed the locker and adjusted her bag. "Calm down. I've only got a sprained ankle, not a broken one. Now, if you wouldn't mind helping me to a cab, I'd like to get home and relax."

Sherlock sighed and just picked Molly up in his arms. She yelped and latched on to his shoulders in surprise, her brown eyes wide as two gold pieces. "Sherlock! Put me down!"

"And let you injure your ankle further? Nonsense." Despite Molly's objections, Sherlock continued to carry her through St. Bart's effortlessly as if she weighed no more than a feather.

"You don't have to carry me through the entire hospital. People will see."

"So let them see. Why are you so shy about a simple feat of chivalry, Molly?"

"Because someone might think it's romantic, you nincompoop! That's why!"

"And that's such a bad thing? As I recall, you and I **are** romantically involved, so there shouldn't be a problem with my carrying you." His eyes twinkled mischievously.

"I don't have a problem with it, but I'd rather not like my coworkers to find out about our relationship in such a grandiose way."

"They're going to find out eventually, so what does it matter _when_ they find out? It's not like it's any of their business. You and I are grown adults and we can do as we wish."

Molly groaned and laid her head on Sherlock's shoulder. "There's no way I can talk you out of this?"

"Nope," he replied, smirking at her. Sherlock half-turned and pushed the front door of St. Bart's open with his hip.

"Fine. On second thought, I should enjoy this as much as possible. It's been a while since a man has carried me in his arms."

"You mean I'm not the first?"

"Mm-mm, I went to a party at uni several years ago. Christopher Macready carried me home when I was too drunk to walk."

"You were drunk? I find that hard to fathom."

"Well, we all do silly things, don't we? And I really liked Christopher, so it didn't bother me. He was nice."

Sherlock pursed his lips and said nothing. Instead, he set her down momentarily and hailed a cab. When it stopped, he opened the door, helped her onto the seat, gave the driver her address and followed her inside.

All was silent for a handful of minutes and Molly began to wonder if something was wrong. Sherlock wasn't saying anything, just scowling slightly and looking like a handsome marble statue.

Suddenly, Molly realized what may be going through her boyfriend's mind. "You're not jealous, are you? I mean, that was a long time ago and it's not like anything happened."

"I know that. It's just uncomfortable for me to think of another man's hands being on you." The words came out in a huff and Molly suspected that Sherlock was thinking, not about Christopher, but of her ex-fiancé, Tom. No doubt the sexual aspect of their relationship as well. That made her cringe.

She scooted onto his lap, so she could get closer to him. "Sherlock, you and I can develop at our own pace. I'm willing to wait until you're ready for us to have sex. It's no rush, you know."

"I'm aware." He touched a few strands of her hair in his hands, focusing upon them for a moment before looking back up up at her face. Desire shone in his eyes as he said, "I like having the knowledge that you only want me, and that you're _mine_." The possessive way he formed his words made a chill run down Molly's spine and she parted her mouth to speak, but Sherlock crushed his lips to hers and smoothed his hands over her hips.

Molly moaned and clutched his bel staff, kissing him back in exuberance. When she pulled back, her eyelids fluttered open and her fingers ran down to his shirt, fiddling with the buttons. "And you're mine, too." She nuzzled his nose with her own and he sighed contentedly, pressing his lips to her pulse point.

Sherlock's hand slid down her thighs and squeezed, eliciting a soft moan from Molly's lips and kept going until he slipped into the waistband of her trousers. He didn't go past her knickers, but he did play with the edges of the fabric, teasing her with his fingers.

Such light, playful touches were making Molly unbelievably turned on and she caught his hand with hers. "I think we'd better stop before things get a little too heated in here."

"Oh, I think things are **more** than a little heated." Sherlock's voice was a pitch deeper now, which put more coals on the fire.

Molly glanced at the rear view mirror and the cabbie quickly looked away with a smirk on his face. Leaning close to Sherlock's ear, Molly whispered, her breathe warm on his cheek. "I'd rather not be ravished in the back of a cab. The audience isn't desirable. So if you don't mind waiting until we get to my flat, I'd be appreciative."

"Just how appreciative," he asked with a grin.

She kissed his lips once more with feeling and slipped her tongue inside briefly, tantalizing him and driving his senses wild. Then she drew back and put her arms around his neck, resting her forehead to his. _"Very."_


End file.
